


Things Rich and Strange

by FantasyQuietly



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mystery, Small Towns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 04:42:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13896507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FantasyQuietly/pseuds/FantasyQuietly
Summary: Fjord needs to know this thing inside him, this thing that's half waking nightmare, half power fantasy. Caleb seems like the only one who might know it, know something like it.Problem is, Fjord likes Caleb, doesn't want to scare him away. And so starts the dance, one he hopes his feet can keep up with.





	Things Rich and Strange

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno. This kinda came out of nowhere. I should have expected it, I find myself in this setting a lot. :P Basically just a casual thing to keep me writing, keep me engaged. Loosely inspired by things like Ondine. Lemme know what you guys think. I've been a Critter since the early days, but I've never quite contributed before.

He sells books. Almost begrudgingly, it seems, but Fjord is sure it must happen for the shop to stay open. Just because he’s never seen it, doesn’t mean anything. After all, there’s only so much time each day he can feign a reason to be there. 

He’d a legitimate one the first time, he swears. Coughing up water in the dead of night, feeling the weight of the sea crushing his chest, restlessly transfixed by that single, glowing eye. There weren’t a lot of places to turn to in a reclusive port town like this. 

It wasn’t some hub of international trade, it didn’t have flourishing tourist seasons and tales brought from afar. It was just a cove, filled with fishermen and their family. Big enough you weren’t marrying your cousins, small enough everyone knew everyone. 

Fjord had been doing his best to camoflauge. Slipped right in like a cuttlefish, just acting like he’d been here his whole life. Sure, the only green feller in town tended to catch eyes, but a woolen hat, ratted sweater, sodden boots made the blend more seamless than you’d think. 

Long as he kept his eyes down, his mouth shut, they didn’t much mind. He did good work, that’s what mattered. And he was determined to keep it that way, to make sure no one saw the creeping barnacles, the glowing energy, his drowning panic. 

So he went to the bookshop— the one that seemed to serve as the cure-all, the portent teller, the place to get out of the wet. The building had a sign that simply said  _ Widogast’s _ . Soaked with salt, paint chipped, creaking chains holding it aloft as it swung in the wind. It was on the pier, free standing, shaped almost like a church. White stone walls with a little belfry. 

When Fjord first set foot in there, floorboards creaking beneath his boot, he was a little in awe of it. It almost seemed… bigger on the inside, though he couldn’t be sure. The reality of it shifted with perspective, appearing cramped and sprawling all at the same time. Small runners of pilled carpet down certain aisles, stepladders in others, books arranged in no order he could make out. 

He was almost sure he’d got it wrong, that this couldn’t possibly be a store. There was no one at the front desk, no bell to ring for help, no customers inside. A place like this wouldn’t survive anywhere else, but it seemed to fit the town. Not a single person or thing here felt like making it easy to call a home. 

Cold damp, harsh waves, bland sustenance. But there was something about it, something in every coarse piece. He’d never breathed fresher air, felt more fulfilled in work, appreciated his bed, his food, his sunrises more. It felt patronizing to say it was just the simplicity of life out here, like talkin’ down on good folks, but—. 

Well, there was a reason he stayed. One aside from the slender man that caught his wrist before he could crack the spine of a single tome. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

Cuttingly cold eyes, furred collar, more grime than the men who fed coal into fires. Fjord didn’t even try and wrestle his hand back, just stared long enough it put the impetus on the shopkeep to let it go. “Ahm trying to find a book. No specific title, mind, but— “ He was cut off before he could get to the complicated part. 

“I don’t stock erotica. Better luck swapping sketches with the other trawlers.” And then he was dismissed. The flip of a scarf and the man was gone, back roaming between the stacks. It took a moment too long for Fjord to stutter to movement, brain kicking back to gear as he chased after. 

“Excuse me,  _ excuse me. _ ” He caught only glimpses of that long, dark coat between a couple shelves, heard the shuffle of boots right before he caught up, tasted the dust motes disturbed in the air. It almost turned into a real chase before he found himself missing the step down to a sunken portion of the layout, catching himself on a table cluttered with loose sheafs of parchment and open bottles of ink. 

“Arschloch!” It at least drew the man’s attention, forced him out of his little hide-and-seek as he stormed on down, muttering in foreign curses and shoving himself into Fjord’s space— recluttering the table into the mess he’d had it before. The right one. “You… salty oafs.” 

Near finishing he’d turned to look over his shoulder, realizing for the first time his back brushing against Fjord’s chest, their faces close in the similar height. He blushed and Fjord couldn’t help the wry smile that pulled at the scar on his lip. He didn’t even notice the awkward stretch of it for once, reaching up to pull his cap off, run his hands through his hair in shy manners. 

“Ahm afraid we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I am not sure what exactly it was that was said to cause such offense, but can we start again?” He didn’t give the man time to answer, knew if he did it would lead to an undesirable outcome, so he barrelled on. “Fjord. I’ve not been here long, but I can’t believe we’ve never met. Such a small town... “ He’d offered his hand to shake a while back, but the shop keep just stared at him, wide eyed and unreadable. It was… cute. He was almost feral with his dirty garb and blunt attitude. 

“I am Caleb and this is my shop and I sincerely doubt there’s anything for you here, so I think you should leave.” It came out with no downbeat, no breath between words, as though it wouldn’t have come at all if he didn’t hurry through it. 

Fjord frowned, stuck his cap back on, crossed his arms across his chest. “Now, now. Aren’t you the rude one? I’d thought for sure the captain that called my m’aw a fish-fucker would’ve been the peak of greetings I’d get here, but I do believe you’re taking the cake.” 

Caleb paled, looked down and toed at the ground, listlessly fretted with things on the table again. “Wow. A fish-fucker… ya. Where’d he get that one?” 

“She. And apparently it’s the only rightly explanation for my yellah belly.” Fjord gestured to the gradient in his coloration, even going as far as to lift the hem of his sweater some, letting Caleb take a glance at the fact that the flat of his stomach was, in fact, golden. The black hair patterned thick around his navel, fanning out in a whorl which stuck out in sharp relief. Fjord couldn’t help taking some gratification in the way Caleb audibly swallowed while looking at it. He scratched at it a little before dropping the garment again and trying to catch Caleb’s skittish eyes. 

“So…” he started, slow, like he might spook the man that still hadn’t stopped fidgeting. “Am I really gonna have to beg you to sell me a book, or?” Caleb looked up at him, from beneath the hang of his mane of hair. 

“I wasn’t kidding before. I don’t have traveler’s almanacs or copies of sea shanties, or sordid stories to keep you warmer beneath the sheets out there.” He shrugged, as though those were just the facts. Open and shut case. 

Fjord rolled his eyes. “I don’t recall ever asking after them things.” He waited a few seconds as Caleb’s mind seemed to stutter, but then the man stood up straight, shook out his collar, cleared his throat. 

“Yes, well. Why else would you be here? That’s all I ever get requests for. That and coffee at the front.” Caleb walked away again, but this time clearly with the intent for Fjord to follow. They went deeper in, winding up, doubling back. Fjord could always see the front door, never looked out from a story higher than the belfry, but he was certain he’d be lost without the swish of Caleb’s coat in front of him. 

“Oh, I’m sure there’s plenty eager to share a sit and sip with a fellah like you.” He murmured it, not sure whether he wanted Caleb to hear or not, and couldn’t tell if the man had when he turned around and they looked at one another again, seconds ticking by without any strain. “I have... “  _ these dreams.  _ “... an unusual interest. Nothin’ sordid, I swear.” Fjord raised his open palm, crossed his heart. 

“Do you have... it’s hard to— dark things. Things in the sea. I’m out there on the waters and they’re grey— just grey— all the way down. No bottom. No other side. Just the cold and the dark. And I can’t be the first, I can’t be the first to wonder… what’s looking back? We stare down there and pray for fish— pray  _ to  _ somethin’ just to keep on living.” 

He’d stopped, started to wring his hands, looked past them as the words spilled from his lips. “What’s down there? What’s listening? What deciding whether or not our nets come up, what’s inside? What happens when it ain’t feeling so generous? When we fall into the waters and sink... “ 

Hands, on his. The fingers are long and slender, nails chewed to uneven ends, palms warm beneath thin gloves. Fjord looks up— Caleb looks back. Cold, clear blue. No glow. “My friend, are you sure what you need is books?” His brows furrow, and the concern is real, is evident. His face is odd and so expressive. Eyes too large, nose protruding and bent, lips chapped to bleeding. Fjord falls into it as easy as he did that deep, unknowable grey. 

“Do you think you got something like that?” He’s speaking in whispers, suddenly, but feels vindicated when Caleb matches it. 

“I think… you should take it slow.” Caleb turns, stopped at no shelf in particular, but just hems and haws for a second before pulling something down, tapping at a binding with no title, but one he considers for a while. “Fishwive’s tales. I lied, they get pretty bawdy in that one. I hope you don’t balk at southern kisses… Though I imagine your preoccupation will lie elsewhere.” 

Fjord blushes, handles the book a little more gingerly than he would have without such information. He looks up to see if Caleb will keep stacking his hands, will send him home with a tower of tales to peruse, but the shopkeep is already off and heading back to the front. 

“You read that, when you can, then you bring it back here. If you still have those questions, we get you another. If you still have ones after that, I send you to a chantry. Ya?” Fjord just nods, swallows. He’s not entirely sure that that shouldn’t have been his first stop. But there was something about it that felt good, something about the way that it surged inside him that he wanted to know before he chose when— if to excise. 

“I’ll get it back to you soon, and in good shape, on my honor.” Caleb raised a brow at that, and if the man were better with people, Fjord would call dare to call that expression… amused. 

“You had better. I don’t play nicely with people who damage my books.” Fjord couldn’t help himself— he smiled, leaned real far across the counter, let his voice drop low, heavier with drawl than it ever had been. 

“Now don’t you go tempting me, Mr. Widogast. Ahm tryin’ to  _ behave  _ while I’m out here.” Caleb blushed, bright. The flush of blood did wonders for him. And then that damned cat interceded. Big and brown and shedding. Fjord broke out in hives just thinking about it. 

He’d not finished the book since. He’d had the time, sure. He had the literacy— those who really knew him wouldn’t question that. He lacked the resolve. His hands shook when he tried to open it. Sweat drew up on his forehead. His chest felt tight, like he was being crushed all over again. 

So he had to invent other reasons to be there, ones less… ghoulish by daylight. It seemed a game Caleb was all too happy to play, for allotted times, measures of patience. He let Fjord knew when that was and wasn’t, calling Frumpkin to come sit as a means of dismissal. 

It was fun, this flirtation. This distraction. This vice. 

It kept his mind from thinking about the nights, from the way the rocking of the boats soothed him into a trance, from the sonorous voice that shook him so deep his insides felt as though they slid against one another. 

**Flooded lungs. Drowned heart. I am the depths inside your soul. Sink to me, Adherent.**

His eyes didn’t even have to close anymore before he was coughing up water. 


End file.
